


Scars

by Kay_fiction



Category: Trigun
Genre: Gen, Scars, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay_fiction/pseuds/Kay_fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a sleepless night, Wolfwood watched Vash sleep. The scars tell their stories, leaving Wolfwood with mixed emotions about his mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago, before I had a full read of the manga, but it leans toward the mangaverse more than the anime.
> 
> Also, I beta-read it myself, with a moderate disregard for my grammar check trying to fix my sentence structure…

The fingers flowed over smooth skin, finding hair-thin scars in the flesh of his arms. Eyes closed, those fingers ghosted the scars as if he had always known them, and each one crossed another and flowed into older, deeper scars of his shoulders. Then to the screws and grate of his chest, which rose and fell evenly with deep sleep. It had been so long since he had seen this man sleep so deeply; who usually tossed and turned in nightmares he couldn’t even begin to understand. He felt his heart twist at the thought of those scars and the shit he had to go through to get them. Each scar told his questing fingers its story; something the scarred soul within could never have told him.

 These were caused by razor wire, these by gunshots, and this by falling debris, this one... His fingers stopped and his closed eyes burned, this one was his fault. It was soft and smooth like most newly healed scars are. He regretted it now, sure, but when he had first met this man, he couldn’t have realized that he’d regret it.

 

His fingers continued across the marred flesh, looking once more for the physical scars. He was no saint, for sure, but he still didn’t understand the real pain this man could have been through; the mental turmoil caused by his brother, and by all the people he’s tried to save and failed. He’s probably seen people he cared for grow old and die, yet never told anyone of this pain.

 He opened his eyes to stare down at the sleeping face. So beautiful this face was, so full of peace. Without the knowledge of those scars, he was angelic. He used that unmarred face as a mask to hide behind, but he could always see through it. Now he knew why this man had such a hollow smile, knew why all the people called him a disaster.

 Poor guy, he thought, though he shook his head, that just isn’t enough to describe the pain and tragedy he endured. His fingers slid along the scars back the way they’d come. His angelic face turned into the moonlight, his flesh arm cradling it just so that he looked breathtaking even with the knowledge of the scars and pain.

 

He found his fingers returning to the new scars, the ones he caused, touching them gently; giving them his full and intense stare, as if he could unmake what he’d made. The scars only blurred in his vision as his concentration wavered. The scarred form moved and he jerked his hand back as if he’d been stung. The man settled on his side, his back to him, and his metal arm stretched across the bed beside his pillow.

 Those scars, he shook his head again, are just too damned much for one person. The scars stretched the expanse of his back--unbelievable. Even compared to the nasty ones on his chest, his back was horrid. There was more scar tissue than flesh by far, and it amazed him--made his heart twist again.

 That was the legacy of baring the burden of one hundred years of torment by a man who called him brother. A man who wanted to utterly annihilate the human race. A breath escaped him as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. A man like that, and he was leading him right into the spider’s clutches.

 

He sat up completely then, a hand over his face, cutting off all visions those scars created. He’d seen what that appalling man was capable of when his brother was concerned. Only now, the real shock and horror of it all struck his senses hard.

  _He_ was leading this gentle man into certain death. He raised his head to look at the ceiling, and he found himself doing something he didn’t do often. Nicholas D. Wolfwood prayed to God, with a feeling he never felt before. He prayed that the path to the right thing would open to him; prayed to God that the man sleeping beside him didn’t fall before the onslaught that was coming.

 

Forget what he’d known of Knives, of what he had thought he knew of Vash…  Now he realized this man was not “the Stampede” at all, he was their hope. Wolfwood watched the sleeping form until morning colored the sky. There was resolution in his eyes as the soft morning light touched Vash’s skin.

 

Wolfwood knew what he had to do from then on; and he would do it.


End file.
